


Reflect

by Barcardivodka



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barcardivodka/pseuds/Barcardivodka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When DI Chandler's eureka moment landed them in a basement, Ray Miles had time to reflect on the unconscious man beside him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflect

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up to and including series 3
> 
> With grateful thanks, as always, to my betas. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone, so please do not steal them! ;)

It hadn’t really surprised DS Ray Miles that when the chips were down DI Joseph Chandler could hold his own in a fight. It did surprise Miles though, that Chandler didn’t fight by the Marquis of Queensbury rules when outside the ring. Then again, when you were taking on four opponents all of whom outweighed you and your only advantage was a superior reach, hitting below the belt and a bit of eye gouging was more survival instinct than bad form.

But it had only been a matter of time before Chandler went down under a flurry of brutal fists and with Miles securely held by a fifth hefty thug, all he could do was shout out in anger and then desperation as the onslaught continued.

After what seemed like an eternity, it had finally ended. The logical part of Miles’ mind told him that the whole fight took less than five minutes – for Chandler at least. Miles’ fight was finished much sooner, with a punch to the gut and a resounding thump to his head. Chandler had managed to inflict some damage onto all four thugs before the advantage of numbers turned in their favour and left Chandler bleeding and unconscious on the floor.

The outcome left Miles here, in the cold and shadowed basement of the warehouse, looking over the unconscious body of his boss, lying still at his side. They shouldn’t have been anywhere near the warehouse in the first place. It was one of Chandler’s bloody eureka moments which had led them here. They should have both been sat, safe, sound and bored in the incident room, sifting through reams of paperwork with the rest of the team, having been loaned out to DI Tom Clanfield from the Fraud Squad.

Miles hadn’t minded the assignment at first. It was more busy work than investigative, but it gave the team time to unwind and rest. The “Bogeyman” case had left them all on edge, particularly Chandler. Miles looked down at the unresponsive man on the floor next to him, reaching out to gently squeeze his shoulder.

Clanfield was a fast-track police officer, a plastic, over educated, smug know-it-all heading for promotion and a desk in the upper echelons of New Scotland Yard when his time at the Fraud Squad came to an end. He was where Chandler should have been and Clanfield didn’t let anyone forget it. He treated Chandler with a barely veiled contempt, dismissing every idea or suggestion that the DI made regardless of its merit.

The Ripper had stopped Chandler’s meteoric rise through the ranks, of which Miles was secretly pleased. It sounded mean and petty, but on that case Chandler became a proper detective. He was intelligent, analytical and perceptive. He was also in the thick of the investigation, taking the lead like a DI should, much to Miles initial irritation. Chandler proved himself on that case and he and Miles had formed the bonds of a fledgling friendship. The case made it clear to Miles that Chandler was needed on the front lines, and although Chandler’s career lay in tattered ruins, Miles was glad to have Chandler here and not behind some desk up in an ivory tower, away from the reality of true policing . The Ripper case, although considered a disaster, was the making of DI Joseph Chandler and all though they didn’t appreciate it, a fortunate turn of events for the Metropolitan Police Service.

Tom Clanfield however, had no redeeming qualities about him at all, and in Miles opinion was the worst example of a DI, real or plastic that he had ever encountered. The sooner the man was safely behind a desk and away from proper police officers the better. Clanfield’s own murder case had been a drunken stabbing, caught on CCTV, the culprit leaving DNA and fingerprints all over the murder weapon and the victim. He had sat behind a desk, and let his sergeant and team do all the legwork. He didn’t even have the stomach to oversee the autopsy, reading the report instead.

Miles couldn’t actually fault Clanfield for that, much as he would like to, as it was how he had expected Chandler to act but it told Miles everything he needed to know about the man. Miles had seen off enough DI’s in his time and far too many of them “plastic” ones. Once in a very long while though, one would come along that earned Miles trust and respect. Miles still hadn’t figured out how a blood-bloodied long strip of piss that he’d hated on sight, had become only the second DI that he’d ever respected and the only one that he had befriended and had even learnt a thing or two from.

He looked down as Chandler moved beneath his hand and let out a sigh of relief. Chandler had been unconscious for at least half an hour and the damn gang members hadn’t been gentle carrying him down the basements steps and dumping him on the floor. With his ever present supply of anti-bacterial wipes, tissues and handkerchiefs, Miles had cleaned Chandler up the best he could, before pulling him into the recovery position. Miles had then taken up guard duty by his side, a hand placed where he could feel the rise and fall of the younger man’s chest. Miles moved his hand to wrap around Chandler’s wrist satisfying himself that Chandler’s pulse beat strong and sure. He fingered the ever present elastic band around the slender wrist.

He’d known something had happened between Morgan and Chandler when he went up to tell her that she was free to go home. The man had been so bashfully happy when he returned it didn’t take a detective to work out that he had found his courage and asked the girl out.

But it had taken a few glasses of scotch, out by Miles’ fish pond at the end of his garden, before Chandler actually told him. The man was cursed by his own good looks. Unable to comprehend the attention he garnered and being so socially awkward he didn’t have the skills to know how to deal with it. But for just a moment he had found happiness, and it was only for a moment. With a self-deprecating laugh he had told Miles how he had stuttered out an invitation to Morgan and how kind she had been as she caressed his cheek and reached up to kiss him. Chandler’s voice had broken as he ghosted fingers over his own cheek, head bowed to try and hide the tears that brimmed in his eyes. It had broken Miles heart. The one woman who would have truly understood this lonely man’s compulsions, who would have been patient with him and drawn him into a life outside of his job, was slain in their own police station. Chandler’s hope of happiness soaked into the carpet of the interview room alongside her life’s blood. 

Sat on the bench, his hand squeezing Chandler’s shoulder in the only way he could offer emotional support, Miles vowed never to match make again. But he also made a silent promise to Chandler that he would have more than the job and a cold, impersonal flat to return to each night.

Miles had started things off slowly. A drink or two at the pub to start, patiently waiting for the right opportunity to drag Chandler home for dinner. The first time hadn’t been a huge success, particularly as little Martha appeared to have set herself the goal of trying to ruin all of Chandler’s £1000 suits by regurgitating all over them. Miles’ eldest son Liam, and Chandler, seemed to find a connection though, bonding over cricket of all things.

After the disaster with the suit and with Liam extracting a somewhat reluctant promise from Chandler to teach him the intricacies of cricket, Miles knew swift action was required. Finding Chandler working at his desk on a Saturday afternoon of what should be a weekend off had resulted in an irritable Miles and an unusually compliant Chandler heading for the local discounted clothing store, Matalan.

Miles good humour was restored on seeing Chandler blanch with horror when the first thing they encountered in the menswear department was a rack of three-piece suits for seventy-five quid. It had taken a firm grip on Chandler’s elbow and a threat to make a public spectacle, to stop the man from fleeing. Chandler had taken to his fate with a rare poor grace, the pair of them snapping and snarling at each other in hushed tones, as Miles pulled jeans, hoodies and t-shirts off racks and pushed them into unenthusiastic hands.

It was only as Chandler stood self-consciously in front of the changing rooms, completely transformed by a pair of black jeans, a dark blue hoodie and a white v-neck t-shirt that Miles truly felt sorry for him. The poor sod was going to turn even more heads in that casual get up. With a cost of £24 for the entire outfit, Miles grabbed four of everything and a couple of pairs of trainers and marched Chandler, who had the air of a man heading for his execution, to the tills.

The cheap clothing ended up getting a good amount of wear and tear. Chandler proved a font of knowledge in cricket and rugby, the latter resulting in some rough and tumble games with Miles and his boys. As long as Chandler could wash up and change, he didn’t appear to mind getting too grubby on occasion and many a time Miles and Judy had witness the besotted Martha being cradled by a wistful looking Chandler, uncaring for a moment that a mucky, saliva covered hand patted his cheek. Judy, bless her, made sure that their en-suite bathroom sparkled and that a set of clean, ironed clothing was always at the ready for when that inevitable panicked look crossed Chandler’s face.

It was only every other weekend or the odd evening that Miles could convince Chandler to join them for a meal, but for now it was enough. Miles was, after all, a patient man.

Miles felt Chandler tense beneath his hand, the younger man’s breath coming out in a gasp as long legs started to curl up. Miles grabbed Chandler’s upper arm, in an attempt to hold him still.

“Boss? You’re alright. It’s me, Miles. You’re safe,” he reassured, feeling the shoulder relax and Chandler attempt to turn over onto his back. Miles scooted across the floor to give him some room.

“Miles, you ok?” Chandler croaked out as he tried to lever himself up onto his elbows, a move that was aborted as Miles placed a hand on his chest and kept him lying flat.

“I’m fine. But you’ve been unconscious for the best part of an hour; you lay still for a bit, don’t want you throwing up everywhere.”

Chandler squinted up at him under the barely there glare of the only working light bulb in the entire basement. Miles often wondered if all of the shops in Whitechapel had been selling duff low-energy bulbs. Just recently all the houses and premises’ in the borough seemed to be permanently ill-lit with shadows lurking ubiquitously. It gave Miles the creeps.

“Your head hurt?” He asked. In reply Chandler stopped squinting at him, closed his eyes and totally ignored the question.

“Where are we?” 

“In the basement of the warehouse. The others should be …. oi, stop that!” Miles made a grab for Chandler’s wrist, but was too late to stop him from touching the cut above his left eye.

“Oh,” Chandler looked from his blood tinged fingertips to Miles.

“A couple more uneven fights like that and you really will end up as pretty as me,” Miles smiled. He pulled out a wipe and cleaned Chandler’s hand and then pushed a wodge of tissues into it. “Best put some pressure on that cut; you’ve made it bleed again.”

“Sorry,” Chandler mumbled out as he did as he was told.

“You look a right sight,” Miles informed him. Both eyes were vying for the accolade of being the most spectacularly bruised; Chandler’s nose was swollen, giving his face a vague off centred look. With a split lip and the cut above his brow completing his temporary appearance, Chandler was going to be looking pretty unwell over the next few days. Feeling it too, if Miles was right about the abuse his ribs and stomach had taken.

“We need to find a way out of here, Miles,” Chandler said, “We need to let DI Clanfield know about….”

“Already on it, boss. I texted Riley while you were explaining your eureka moment. Gave her the address and told her if she hadn’t heard anything within the hour to get back-up out to us. Expect they’re already upstairs making some arrests with luck.”

“That was very astute of you, Miles,” Chandler commented, wincing as he tried to frown at Miles’ smile.

“Yeah, well, I know what you’re like. Get an idea in your ‘ead and off you go, all half-cocked. Forget about the little things, like back-up and the like.”

“I’m not that bad!” Chandler protested. Miles patted him on the shoulder.

“I must confess, I will be glad to see the back of Clanfield,” Chandler admitted quietly. “He is quite difficult to work with.”

“He reminded me of you,” Miles stated, pushing Chandler back down as he attempted to push himself up to look at Miles in disbelief, “before you became a proper copper,”

“Is there a compliment in there somewhere, Miles?” Chandler asked with a lopsided smile, mollified.

Miles just smiled. “You just lie still and rest,” Miles replied instead. “Doubt we’ll be here too much longer.”

“Yes, mother.”


End file.
